


there’s a whisper in my bones (keeping me restless)

by Y_ellow



Series: not an if but a when [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Anarchy, Aromantic Weasel, Baby Queers Doing Crimes, Bisexual Peter Parker, Canon Typical Violence, Dead Girlfriend Club, Deadpool uses they/them/theirs, Demisexual Weasel, Dive Bar Meet Cute, Fuck the timeline I do what I want, Gender Queer Deadpool, Grey Hacker Weasel, Grief/Mourning, I WILL go down with this ship and I WILL take as many of you down with me as possible, Letterkenny References, M/M, Marvel Polyship Bingo, Multi, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Peter features in the last 700 words of this fic, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Soft Domme Vanessa, Wade uses he/him/his, Weasel is an asshole and a good bro and those really aren’t mutually exclusive, but sadly that day is not this day, c'mon you know you wanna read it (just for the morbid fascination if nothing else), codependent relationships, emotions?? in MY porn??? it's more likely than u think, main pairing is Weasel/Wade but Wade’s got a lot of love to give, one day author will stop killing Vanessa off, same hat with MJ/Gwen/whoever else has the misfortune of dating Peter, the nature of X-Force shenanigans remains TBD but live your best life, times three if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow
Summary: The thing is, it’s never anything new, even when it is.(In which Weasel meets Wade at the start of it all, and never manages to escape his gravitational pull. He doesn’t try all that hard.)For the 'Anarchy' square of my Marvel Polyship Bingo!
Relationships: Wade Wilson & X-Force (mentioned), Wade Wilson/Vanessa Carlysle, Wade Wilson/Weasel, Weasel & Vanessa Carlysle, Weasel & Wade Wilson, pre Wade Wilson/Peter Parker, pre Weasel/Wade Wilson/Peter Parker
Series: not an if but a when [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815739
Comments: 29
Kudos: 48
Collections: Marvel Polyship Bingo 2020, Only the Most Beautiful





	there’s a whisper in my bones (keeping me restless)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well, what do we have here? Another hooman willing to read my rare-pair trash-fire of a fic? 
> 
> This fic would not exist without [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe) and [AnGoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose). They encouraged (read: enabled) me to write it in the first place, and cheered me along while I sent them way too many messages about my feels, and gave this trash SUCH a thorough beta. Chances are good you’ve already heard of them, but if you haven’t then make sure you go check ‘em out and give them lots of love!!

Weasel—still Jack, for a little while longer—doesn’t have a great track record with people. 

He doesn’t get them, mostly. All his classmates are the same, pretentious and vapid and obsessed with their latest crush or the newest celebrity gossip. Their professors aren’t much better. And none of them _get him,_ none of them understand his sense of humour and the way he hides behind it. They get offended at his sharp tongue, take things personally when he doesn’t mean it like that at all, and laugh when he _does._

He’s almost earned his bachelor of science in computer engineering, and while he can take apart and assemble just about any bit of machinery and code any software he sets his mind to, he still can’t tell when people start to expect more from him than he can give, can’t predict when interactions stop being easy and straightforward and the wires get all mixed up instead. It’s maddening. 

At least when a computer or piece of machinery breaks he knows exactly what to do to fix it (and improve it, even). Computers don’t bitch at him for missing an important date, or for forgetting to answer a message that didn't seem all that important in the first place. Computers don’t tell him he’s broken for not wanting a wife and a white picket fence house in the suburbs with 2.5 kids and a dog. Computers don’t tell him he's wrong for not wanting flowers and chocolates and romance on birthdays and holidays and special occasions and any odd day of the year.

At some point he stops trying, just about washes his hands of humanity and dedicates himself to learning, using, _hacking,_ instead. The dark net is a wonderful place—if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, and if you aren’t stupid enough to use a name or email or credit card than can be traced back to you.

(That’s how _Jack_ becomes _Weasel._ It suits him much better, in the end.)

Computers are so much more reliable than people, and people are so much more tolerable behind a screen. Like this, he’s got the whole world at his fingertips. There’s nothing he can’t do and nowhere he can’t go or get into—given enough time, a stable internet connection and coffee strong enough to distort the space-time continuum. 

It starts with boredom and a desire to prove himself, and grows from there when he figures out how easy it is to make money sitting in his dorm room in nothing but his boxers. 

He’ll do little stuff for pocket change, like get someone’s nudes back from a shitty ex, or send a stalker a bit of malware and a threatening message or three dozen. The bigger stuff he does for more, because his gear is expensive, and because money speaks. It’s still nothing huge, but rich people will pay out of the nose just to have their latest sex scandal dealt with. All he has to do is point it out to them in the first place, good samaritan that he is, and show them just how easy it would be to let certain things they’d rather be kept private slip to the tabloids. But never fear, because he can make it all go away—for the right price, obviously.

It’s all embarrassingly easy, not half as confusing as navigating ‘normal’ interactions, and Weasel might be a bit of a bad person for it but it’s fun and he’s not actually hurting anyone so he doesn’t care. Really, he’s doing them all a favour, just he’s doing his bank account a favour at the same time. 

And then Weasel meets Wade. 

(Spoiler alert: Once an asshole, always an asshole.)

Weasel isn’t much of a drinker, isn’t much for big gatherings and vulnerabilities in public spaces, isn’t much for vulnerabilities _period,_ but sometimes even he needs to let loose a bit, needs to feel connected to flesh and blood people for a while, at least tangentially. When his shitty apartment—a real upgrade from his shity dorm room, thank fuck he decided against graduate school—gets too lonely, when the silence turns oppressive instead of peaceful...

There’s a seedy little bar tucked in a half-forgotten alley that’s perfect for just those occasions. 

The people who frequent it are hardly upstanding citizens. These are the types of people Weasel _understands:_ murderers and thieves and criminals, each and every one of them. Their strings are easy to find and even easier to pull, because they’re all so very similar to his own.

(C’mon, this is what’s real, and raw, and _honest,_ in ways all those pretty ‘civilized’ people with their perfectly manicured nails and expertly permed hair and their 9-5 white collar jobs and fake smiles could never hope to understand.)

He’ll always prefer technology to messy human interactions, but there are a few things computers can't do for him—namely, human companionship (even Weasel isn’t impervious to skin-hunger), and orgasms that don't involve just his hands (on the once-in-a-blue-moon occasions where he actually wants sex, that is).

The issue isn’t so much the availability of potential partners—Weasel has no qualms about hiring a sex worker for a night, and what people have between their legs doesn’t factor in his interest in the least. It’s more that Weasel knows himself well enough to admit that no stranger is ever going to be enticing enough to get him off. He’s tried that plenty. 

Now, well into his twenties, he doesn't feel the need to bother lying about it anymore, to himself or to anyone trying to get in his pants. Sometimes, if he finds someone especially interesting, he’ll give it the old college try—it doesn’t get him off, but he can still enjoy a titillating round of herpes roulette for what it is. 

But he needs a bit more than that, needs to have some sort of connection to the other person to make it really good, and to want to tolerate their presence more than once. 

Not easy to come by when you scorn and mistrust people in equal turns. 

But even if he won’t bring any of these people back with him tonight, won’t let them take him home either, there’s something soothing about the din, the thinly veiled depravity, the way they’re all reduced to base instincts. 

So Weasel claims an out-of-the-way table and settles in to people-watch, drinks his beer and lets the sounds of life, messy and rough and _real_ wash over him. There’s a couple fucking in a booth, crude and visceral and uncaring of everyone around them (the lady might be a sex worker, Weasel has seen her at it before and _not_ with that particular dipshit). Weasel makes a mental note not to sit there, ever, and very carefully avoids thinking about how sticky the table feels against his hands. There’s a tight knit unit of folks sequestered in one shadowy corner practically braiding each other’s beards and all wearing matchy-matchy leather vests and jackets that mark them as part of a bike gang. There’s a pair of mercenaries who nod at him on their way past his table, and Weasel nods back in acknowledging (there’s plenty of work to be done for hackers like him if you just know where to look.)

And, by the bar, there’s a wide-eyed brunette, looking prim and proper and _painfully_ out of place for a dive like this. She’s talking to some douchebag wearing a ridiculous plaid and fur jacket, but it doesn’t actually seem like he’s bothering her—not that anyone would help if he was, and especially not Weasel. She keeps looking over her shoulder towards the door, eyes flitting fearfully over the dark spaces. He says something, the shadows playing across the stubble of his jaw with the movement, and he shakes his head in the negative when she reaches for her purse. Before she leaves he hands her what looks like a calling card, briefly touches her shoulder in a way that thinks itself reassuring.

There’s something captivating about the blond man, something mesmerizing in the way he moves. Weasel keeps watching him as he wastes no time getting in a fist fight with three beefy dudes by the pool table. He struts up to them, says something that Weasel can’t quite make out, but might be, ‘Let’s fucking go, buds, it takes three to fuck an ostrich and you’ve all been _naughty.’_ Whatever it is, it pisses them _the fuck_ off. 

Weasel isn’t usually one for senseless violence, can’t stomach the sight of brutality—at least not when there’s an immediate risk to his person, which there _definitely_ is right now. He winces as one of the men bellows in pain from where the blond douchebag may or may not have just kneed him in the balls. The patrons who are still milling about close enough to become collateral scatter like rats, casually pretending they have very important business in literally _any_ other part of the bar. Weasel should do the same, should look away before any of them take his interest as a challenge (or worse). He should mind his own damn business, ignore the situation and maybe even pay off his tab and call it a night. 

But not tonight. 

Tonight, Weasel can’t tear his eyes away from the blond as he grins and grins and grins while beating one of the men unconscious, viciously pummeling the man’s face and head again and again and again. It’s clear even to Weasel that he has the upper hand, straddling the man’s abdomen in a brutally effective grapple. He doesn’t stop his onslaught until the man under him stops trying to break free, stops trying to fight back, stops moving all together. 

When he stands, there are specks of blood standing out starkly against the white fur collar of his jacket and splattered onto his face like something straight out of a horror film. Like if the love child of Sweeney Todd and Ryan Reynolds tried to fight the rabbit of Caerbannog and then _ate_ the rabbit. It’s a whole look, and it _does things_ to Weasel. 

He wastes no time throwing himself into the fray with the remaining two men, and through it all, his smile never fades—not when one of his remaining assailants-slash-victims (Weasel mentally dubs him tweedledee) lands a punishing blow to his solar plexus, and not even when tweedledum breaks a bottle against a nearby table and moves in menacingly. 

After, when there are three bodies on the ground and no one bothers to check them for a pulse— _sloppy_ —the blond douchenozzle wanders over to the counter, orders himself a drink like nothing happened, and claims the vacant chair at Weasel’s table— _busted_ —with a flourish, sitting with his legs splayed open on either side of the chair and forearms resting lightly against the back.

He’s still smiling, and it might have looked friendly if not for the blood, and the feverish glimmer of something vicious and unhinged in his eyes. 

There’s a whole _lot_ of blood, up close. 

Some of it is his, most of that from a jagged cut bisecting his eyebrow. It’s running down the side of his face in a crimson trail, dripping down his cheek and chiseled jawline to collect in the grooves of the table. That shit’s gonna scar, for sure.

The rest of the blood is obviously not his, and he doesn’t seem to care about any of it. 

Weasel shifts slightly in his seat, but doesn’t dare get up to leave—too late for that now, what with the raging fear boner he popped somewhere about when this Satan-lookalike decided to pot his eightball in tweedledee’s eye socket. 

“Gee- _zus_ , you Americans are all so ill-tempered, it’s not like I shat in their shreddies or anything. D’you think it was the ‘please’ that confused them, babycakes? Should I have said ‘go ass-fuck yourselves with a puck’ instead? Is there such a thing as _too much butt talk_? Not to fall too deep into rape-culture, but they sure _were asking for it.”_ The bleeding maniac is talking a mile a minute as he leans _way_ too far into Weasel’s personal space, until Weasel can see the bloodshot in his eyes and feel the heat of him. None of what he’s saying makes any sense at all, because that's the exact opposite of what happened as far as Weasel could tell. _Exactly_ the opposite. 

So Weasel says as much. “That’s the exact opposite of what happened. _Exactly_ the opposite.”

It’s maybe not his smartest move, considering he’s just watched this blond rage monster brutally take down three men that were definitely all stronger than Weasel. With _ease._ Not to mention, here is a guy who seems so comfortable with the feeling of tacky blood against his skin that he hasn't even bothered trying to wipe it away. 

Weasel’s voice isn’t shaking, but he feels like it should be. Why isn’t he more bothered by this? 

The blond just laughs and reaches even further into Weasel’s personal space to tweak his nose, and it’s weird. It’s so, _so_ weird. 

Weasel swats at him and very decisively doesn’t relax as the guy launches into a convoluted story about a horse (or maybe a guy hung like a horse, it’s not entirely clear and context doesn’t help at all). And that somehow turns into a retelling of his work as a soldier of fortune (because this crazy motherfucker doesn’t even pause to consider that it might be better to keep that shit to himself.) ”Fucking Prague, man, now _that_ was a bloodbath!” He says with a wide eyed grin and an exuberant nod, and Weasel can’t tell if the pictures he shows off are more nauseating or impressive. “First kid on my block to get a confirmed kill,” he adds, with a wink and a happy little sigh that fits his creepy-killer aesthetic perfectly.

Somewhere in all that, he introduces himself as _Wade Wilson_ —squeals, ”Team W!” right into Weasel’s ear—and then somehow he gets Weasel started on the merits and downfalls of white, grey and black hackers. 

Once Weasel starts talking, he can’t seem to stop. The first (and second) rule of Crime Club is almost certainly _don’t talk about it,_ but no amount of common sense can prevail in the onslaught of the storm that is Wade _fucking_ Wilson. 

“Age of the Geek, huh? You nerds sure are cute, but I’m a hands-on sorta guy—sometimes a turd-looting ass-canoe just needs a good smack down. Nothing says ‘honey I’m home’ quite like a broken face!” Wade exclaims, a shit-eating grin splitting his face wide and that same madness twinkling in his eyes. 

Weasel bristles. What a _prick._ He draws a breath to tell Wade _exactly_ how much better things can get with a bit of _finesse._

Somehow—and Weasel really isn’t completely sure how it comes up in the first place and even less sure about why he _accepts_ —Wade double-dog-dares him to do something _stupid._ It’s small, in the grand scheme of things, but still _oh. so. stupid._ For _free._ The rush of adrenaline that comes with breaking into SHIELD’s top secret servers to send a top-priority agency-wide email with a link to a video of a man fisting himself is its own reward. 

Weasel can’t seem to shake Wade after that, can’t seem to break free of his presence. No matter what job he decides to pick up, Wade lurks in the shadows—always eager to congratulate him on a job well done or to tease him for making a bad situation worse. 

And Weasel can’t— _won’t_ —try to shake him because Wade has a knack for finding the most _obscenely_ well-paying gigs, each one weirder than the next in the best way possible, and Weasel just can’t say no to getting paid to fuck shit up for bad dudes. So they end up working together, and Weasel gets used to it and gets on with it. 

Wade is still an annoying asshole, but now he’s _Weasel's_ annoying asshole, so that’s fine. 

It’s a talent of Wade’s, Weasel finds. He works his way under your skin, into your life so thoroughly that it’s like he was always there, always belonged. He’s like a burr, or maybe more of a parasite—one of those really nasty ones with pincers that latch onto your insides, and once it’s in there's no way to get rid of it other than by massively invasive surgery, the kind that ends with you slurping nutrients through a straw for months during the recovery period. 

Weasel doesn’t have a great track record with people, but Wade doesn’t care about Weasel’s hangups—he’s everywhere, always. 

Truthfully, Weasel doesn’t try all that hard to get away from him. They fall into habits almost before they’ve had time to learn each other’s tells. They work well together. Wherever Weasel’s hacking isn’t enough, Wade takes over—all bruised knuckles and wild grin and reckless energy. 

Wade is a steady part of his life, of _him,_ even when he’s not. It doesn't matter if they go days, weeks, months, without running into each other, without taking a job together. Everytime, it’s like no time has passed at all. They fall back into place as easily as breathing. 

Weasel doesn’t get most people, doesn’t always give them a chance to get to know him, but with Wade, it’s unavoidable. 

Inevitable. 

\\\//

The thing is, no part of their friendship feels new, even when it is. 

The first time they sleep together—not that either of them will count it—goes something like this:

They're camped out in Weasel’s shitty little apartment, both sitting on the floor because Wade spilled maybe a gallon of coffee on the couch and it’s still sopping wet. Wade is fidgeting, just a bit, but it’s enough to be a distraction. He’s not good at this part. This part is all Weasel, and it feels _good_ —the stakes are high enough this time that Weasel can’t afford to take a break, can’t let his brain turn off before he extracts the information they need and the countdown ends. It feels good to be doing something that matters, that’ll actually have an impact.

And with what these people are paying, he can probably just buy a whole new couch. A few more of these jobs with Wade and he might even think about moving somewhere else altogether. Somewhere better, maybe, with space enough for an office. He’s getting too old to sit on the floor for hours on end.

Fully engrossed in his screen, and with the sound of his fingers racing across the keyboard filling his ears, Weasel doesn’t even notice the passage of time. This is his element, this is where he excels. It’s almost too easy in the end, a flash of clever fingers dancing over the keys and a few simple lines of code, one of his favourites, and he’s in, information acquired, and back out without leaving a trace. Except, of course, for those few insidious lines of code which will let him get back in whenever he wants. 

Who knows, access to Oscorp might be useful down the line—stranger things have happened. There's really no reason not to keep it. This way none of their information is out of his reach, with none of the trouble of jumping through hoops again to get it. 

(And none of the fun, but that’s fine, because Wade is always happy to find him new and challenging places to hack into and new idiots with more power and money than the gods to exploit. Weasel hasn't been bored since meeting him.)

Weasel powers his laptops down, lets the screens fade to black and stretches, feeling his back pop as the tension in his shoulders releases. 

The rush of adrenaline he always gets after pulling off something risky is thrumming hot through his bloodstream, and then Wade is right up in his face, noses touching from how close they are. 

“You wanna?” Wade asks, his breath hot and smelling like the coffee they’ve been guzzling all night, and Weasel just nods because, yeah, why not. They don’t kiss, and Weasel is grateful because he’s never been a huge fan of kissing, _especially_ not stale-coffee-flavoured. Never been a huge fan of mixing business with pleasure in general really, but here, now, with Wade, it seems alright. More than alright; he wants this, wants to feel Wade’s bare skin against his, wants to hear what he sounds like when he comes. 

They strip, quickly, efficiently, and neither one of them feels the need to put on a show. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness—when they’re both nude, dicks already half hard—where they look at each other and around the room, not quite sure where they want to go. Wade chuckles first, and his laughter is contagious. Weasel turns on his heel and pads to his bedroom. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Wade is following him on silent killer feet. It should probably be terrifying to have a mercenary at his back, but this is Wade, and Weasel knows Wade as well as he knows himself. 

Weasel lets himself flop back onto his bed bonessly, watching Wade watch him with his eyes at half mast. He lingers in the doorway a moment, eyes roaming and roving and taking it all in. Weasel isn’t sure what enemies Wade is seeking out in the gloom, but he can be patient, he can wait him out. 

When Wade does move he does it decisively, with short, precise steps that take him across the room and right beside Weasel. 

“Where do you keep the lube, Wees?” Wade asks, exactly like how he’s asked him any number of similar inane questions over the years: ‘where do you keep the maple syrup, Wees?’ or ‘where do you keep the charger, Wees?’ or even ‘where do you keep the guns, Wees?’ Ridiculous. 

“Nightstand,” Weasel says, and doesn’t add _“where else would I keep it, do you keep yours pre-portioned up your ass like some kind of self-lubricating furry-fetishist?”_ He doesn’t need to.

Wade rummages through the nightstand drawer and Weasel knows as soon as he grabs it because he makes an exaggerated sound of triumph. Idiot. Weasel laughs anyways. 

Wade is grinning when he turns back, and all but throws himself onto the bed, making Weasel bounce up once with an _oof,_ utterly undignified. His skin is warm and soft where they’re pressed together. 

“Budge up,” Wade says, nodding towards the head of the bed, and Weasel complies with a grumble. He was perfectly comfortable there, thanks. 

Weasel stays propped up on his elbows as Wade opens the bottle with a soft _pop,_ drizzling a generous amount of the lube onto his hand. He tosses the bottle unceremoniously down onto the bed, where it comes to a stop by Weasel’s hip. Lazy, uncivilized, _bastard._

Weasel shelves his irritation at needing to expend the mental energy to keep track of the bottle _(for now)_ because Wade’s hand is hot around his cock, not an ounce of shame in his grip. The lube is still cool enough to make Weasel hiss at the contrasting sensation, which makes Wade chuckle, low and dark and more to blame for the shiver that runs down Weasel’s spine than the hand stroking his cock. 

Wade massages the lube across his skin with slow, deliberate strokes, somehow knowing just how to slide the loose skin of his foreskin over the head to make Weasel’s hips jerk reflexively. Weasel lets his eyes slide shut, lets his head fall back against the pillow, lets himself enjoy the slow drag of Wade’s hand on his dick, Wade’s other hand running up his hip, trailing over the delicate skin of his inner thighs, down to his balls. 

The pull of pleasure is slow, leisurely, and when Weasel finally comes it’s with Wade’s name on his lips. The pleasure still tingling down to his fingertips makes him reluctant to move, but Weasel rolls over onto his stomach anyways and clenches his thighs together so Wade can rub off between them, the head of his cock nudging against Weasel’s balls with every thrust. Wade’s bulk is a solid weight against Weasel’s back, his forehead sweat-damp and sticky where it’s pressed to Weasel’s shoulder. Weasel murmures sleepy encouragements into the pillow as Wade’s hips stutter and jolt. 

Wade bites his shoulder as he comes, adding his own sticky mess to the damp sheets. A small price to pay for an orgasm, Weasel thinks. 

Weasel stays still as long as he can tolerate, letting Wade bask in the afterglow. But no amount of afterglow can change the fact that Wade is heavy, and hot, and sticky, and honestly pretty gross after all the exertion. Neither of them have showered in the past twenty odd hours, and they were both pretty ripe even _before_ they went and covered themselves in drying come and sweat. So Weasel grumbles and squirms until Wade rolls away, flopping down beside him on his back. 

“You’re such a lazy bastard,” Weasel says, and it sounds impossibly fond even to his own ears but at least Wade knows better than to point it out, just mutters something in the pillow that might be _“your lazy bastard”_ or _“you’re a lazy bastard.”_

Weasel flicks Wade’s ear in response, but gets up to find a washcloth to clean them both anyways, and when they’re clean _enough_ he settles in for a well deserved nap. It’s early afternoon, but Weasel hasn't slept since before they even started their most recent job (and the brief foray into mob business before that, fucking _Wade_ poking at hornets nests.) It feels like an eternity ago. For once, he feels relaxed enough to nod off without any pharmaceutical help, even with another warm body beside him. 

Wade probably doesn’t sleep, but he stays beside him anyways, curled onto his side with his head close enough to Weasel’s that his hair tickles where it brushed against the side of Weasel’s face. It doesn’t bother him enough to do anything about it, even though it should. 

When they wake up, they wash up properly (and _separately)_ and don’t talk about it, because why bother? It’s nothing new, nothing noteworthy—it just felt good, felt right. It’s no different than rutting against a pillow in the dark before falling asleep or jacking off in the shower. 

That’s the first time, and it won’t be the last. 

\\\//

Somewhere between little jobs hacking for leaked celebrity nudes and bigger jobs bringing corporations to their knees, Weasel starts to build something of a network. He doesn’t notice it as it happens, doesn’t realize how unprecedented it is until Wade points it out. 

Turns out it isn’t just any hacker than has a web quite like Weasel’s. It stretches far and wide to grasp at people like him (people who snoop and butt their noses in where they don’t belong to dig up skeletons in closets), and people like Wade (people who are good at making those skeletons disappear—and who are especially good at making more skeletons, but that’s it’s own thing). 

It’s a unique opportunity, and Weasel isn’t one to let that slip by. 

Still, it’s new and uncharted territory for him, and Weasel still isn’t that great with people when there isn’t a screen between them (with the exception of a certain crass and loudmouthed mercenary). Good thing he’s got Wade around to do all the legwork.

Their little operation grows and grows and somewhere along the line Wade idly muses how much easier it would be if everyone would just come to them— _“like a dispensary for mercenaries”_ —and that actually isn’t a horrible idea. 

Getting a space (a base of operations as it were) is almost too easy. It feels like going full circle in a way that’s right and meant to be.

That seedy little dive where they first met—Sister Margaret’s Home For Wayward Girls, according to the lease—seems good as any, and all Weasel has to do is hack the system and put his name on the contract. Wade drops a duffle bag of cash in front of the stuttering idiot that used to own it and that’s that.

(It’s uncharacteristically charitable of them to actually pay for it, sure, but Weasel does _not_ like loose ends. A dead body is a _“fucking loose end, Wade, put the swords away.”)_

Easy.

\\\//

Contrary to popular belief, being the semi-respectable proprietor of a fine establishment like Sister Margaret’s isn’t all that easy. Weasel works long hours to manage the bar itself, and longer hours to manage the mercenaries that frequent it—he’s like their Santa Claus, except instead of an army of elves in pointy shoes he’s got a bunch of shitty tooth fairies that knock teeth out and don’t pay for damages, and the only pointy things they have are knives. And he doesn’t give out toys, just paints targets on backs. So really, nothing like Santa Claus or tooth fairies at all. 

While Wade goes off to far-off places and does what he does best for weeks or months at a time ( _mayhem, death, destruction_ ), Weasel keeps himself busy by dipping his fingers in various pies and fucking with various government agencies. It’s a hobby of his by then, and he even has a bit of a cat and mouse game going with some doucherocket over at SHIELD—what the fuck kind of hippie name is Skye anyways—who responds to Weasel’s presence in their servers by trying to hack him right back. It’s great fun, even if they’re _far_ too optimistic for Weasel’s tastes. 

Tonight, Wade is leaning against the bar counter, back from his most recent ‘business trip,’ while Weasel closes up for the night. He’s laughing at his own jokes and spinning a tale about saving a male nurse from a three foot tall gorilla by stripping for the mob. Weasel knows him well enough to know that it’s probably completely truthful, even if it sounds nothing of the sort. 

Wade is incredibly, _ridiculously_ drunk—off victory as much as he is off the Diva Vodka Weasel stocks just for him (which he won’t pay for, again). The familiar smell of blood and gunpowder clings to his skin, and a gruesome crown of dried blood mats the hair at his temples. For all that he’s been talking for hours, Weasel still isn’t sure exactly what happened to cause it. 

(It’s not his job to deal with it so he won’t, even if he _had_ surreptitiously checked Wade for a concussion when he first stumbled in.)

Wade’s smile is sharp, teeth bared too widely to be friendly (always), with something like madness glinting in his eyes _(always)._

Between one blink and the next, Wade vaults over the counter, crowding Weasel up against his own damn wall because of course he doesn't care about personal space or boundaries, he never has. Weasel doesn’t have time to bitch about it because _oh fuck_ —Wade’s got a great mouth on him alright. It’s about time he put it to good use. 

Weasel lets his head smack back against the wall, the little twinge of pain in his skull accompanied by the sound of glass bottles rattling against each other. He wants to fist his hand in Wade’s hair, so he does. There’s no one around to see them, thankfully—not that a bar full of mercenaries would be enough to stop Wade Wilson once he’s got an idea in his fool head. 

Wade’s mouth is warm and wet and he doesn’t have a gag reflex. He likes it when Weasel pulls and tugs at his hair, likes to get his throat fucked with sharp little jerks until he chokes on it, likes to be on his knees at Weasel’s feet. He peers up at Weasel through his lashes with that same glint of madness in his eyes along with something else. Something that shouts _look at me and don't you dare look away._ Something small and broken that says _keep me, aren't I being good?_

Weasel swears as he comes down Wade’s throat, trapped and transfixed as Wade swallows every drop. Weasel swears again as Wade sucks on the head, tongueing at the slit, his grip on Weasel’s hips preventing him from twisting away—it’s way too much, and Wade knows it. Asshole, remember? 

Weasel lets himself slide down to sit on the floor with Wade between his legs, fly unzipped and dick still out, feeling lazy and boneless and a little bit dazed. Merc with a mouth, no kidding. 

Wade’s body is heavy where he’s slumped against Weasel’s chest, crowding and pressing him back against the wall almost painfully like he just can’t get close enough. Wade whispers filthy nothings in his ears (because god forbid he _ever_ shut up) as Weasel pulls him off, and comes with a low groan and a heartfelt _“Wees.”_

He makes Wade clean the mess. 

(And when he heads upstairs to his flat above the bar, he lets Wade trail after him, washes Wade’s hair with gentle fingers—head wounds always bleed too much, and like always, most of the blood isn’t his anyways—and lets Wade hog the covers.) 

\\\//

Vanessa is beautiful, and kind (when she wants to be) and brutal (always). She and Wade get along like a house on fire and it’s no surprise. 

What is surprising (but probably shouldn't be) is that he still fits in Wade’s life exactly like always—none of what matters most changes.

Weasel is still orbiting Wade (because by now he doesn't know how to do anything else), except now he isn’t just orbiting Wade, but Wade-and-Vanessa. 

( “What about Vanessa? 

“What about her? She thinks watching her guy having sex with another guy is hot. We should do that, at some point. If you wanna.” )

Wade and Vanessa fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and Weasel isn’t the third wheel to their epic romance he almost feels like he should be. 

Because Wade is right, and Vanessa really _does_ enjoy watching them fuck, and her brand of madness matches Wade’s well enough to match Weasel’s, too. 

She rubs at her clit with vigorous abandon and comes with a shudder while Wade gives Weasel enthusiastic head, and then joins them on the bed. ”He’s so good at that, isn’t he?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. “Yeah,” is all Weasel can manage in reply, voice a wreck and mind firmly in the gutter, fingers tangled in Wade’s hair as an anchor point, his grasp on Wade the only thing in the world that matters. 

Vanessa's fingers are cold where they brush against his when she reaches over to scratch her nails through Wade’s hair in that way that makes him shudder and whine. “Stay right there, babe, but don’t make him come yet,” she says. There’s steel in her voice, for all that the tone is light, and Wade stills. Weasel groans in tandem with Wade’s answering hum, hips stuttering forwards once before he forces himself into stillness as well. His balls are already tight and full, and he’s so _close—_ this is going to be sweet _torture._

Vanessa trails her fingers along Wade’s back, his sides, digging her fingers under his ribs cruelly, and Wade just takes it, makes these broken little noises that are muffled by the dick in his mouth. He bobs his head once, slowly, like he just can’t help himself, tongue flitting along the thick vein on the underside of Weasel’s cock in a way that makes his eyes roll back in his skull.

Vanessa grins, something wicked and impossibly fond in her gaze, and grabs the lube, squeezing a generous amount over Wade’s ass and letting it dribble between his cheeks. It’s a vulgar act, that shouldn't look nearly as hot as it does. Wade grunts around Weasel’s dick as Vanessa dips her fingers through the slick, fingering him open in a way that looks too fast and brutal to feel good. Weasel wouldn't know, hasn’t cared to experiment much, but he’s willing to bet that it _sucks._

 _“Wade,”_ Weasel croaks out, feeling the slow drag of pleasure building as Wade does something with his tongue that feels utterly _sinful,_ and Vanessa slaps him on the hip so hard that the shock jostles right through Wade and straight to Weasel’s dick. Wade goes limp, mouth soft and pliant and wet and still until it’s not quite so overwhelming, even if it still feels so, so good.

Wade’s always liked being the centre of attention. Figures that he’d love being between two of his favourite people like this, figures he’d love being shared by them, being _used_ by them. 

The strap-on Vanessa fastens with practiced ease is prodigiously sized _(size queen)_ and cherry red (it matches her favourite lipstick, and the tacky blood Wade wears like laurels when he makes his way back to them). She puts it on with practiced ease and wastes no time splitting Wade open. Wade’s muffled grunts and the flutter of his tongue are enough to make Weasel’s hip stutter as Vanessa bottoms out in one slick thrust, and she moans as it moves against her clit in time with her hips. 

There’s a wild look in Wade’s eyes when he glances up at Weasel through his lashes, something that’s always been desperately pleading to be noticed _(to be kept,)_ something else that screams, _too much, too much, give me more._

No kidding, buddy. The head of Wade’s dick is an angry looking red where it’s bobbing between his legs, because Vanessa teased and edged him for _ages_ without letting him come before even letting him wrap his lips around Weasel’s dick like he’d been begging for.

(Vanessa is beautiful, and flirty as sin and just as witty, and she’s also _mean._ Wade never stood a chance, never really had a choice about falling head over heels for her. And like almost every other aspect of their lives, Weasel follows and carves a place for her in his life.)

Vanessa leaves a trail of burning kisses down Wade’s back, between his shoulder blades, her lipstick staining his skin like a brand. She drags a hand up Weasel’s arm to rest against his shoulder, ostensibly for better leverage. It makes his pulse race. 

“What do you think, Wees, think he deserves to come yet?” she asks, a teasing, taunting tilt to her smile, eyes glinting. She’s moving her hips in shallow thrusts, rocking and grinding into Wade in a way that probably feels better for her than it does for him. The muscles in Wade’s arms are bulging from the strain of keeping himself still, teetering on the edge between choking himself on Weasel’s dick and impaling himself on Vanessa's strap-on. Not that he has much of a choice about either. 

Wade whines, low in his throat when Weasel looks down at him contemplatively. “He _has_ been very good,” Weasel says, trailing a hand down Wade’s face to cup his jaw and thumb at the corner of his lips, stretched wide around Weasel’s cock. “ _Such_ a good boy for us,” he says again, just to watch Wade’s eyes glaze over, his features softening with something Weasel can’t put a name to but that looks a lot like bliss. 

Vanessa hums in agreement, petting Wade’s flanks as he shudders under her hands. Her hips never cease in their movement, and eventually she says, “Go on then, babe, show Weasel just how good you can be. Show him how grateful my good boy is to be here.” 

And Wade does. 

Boy, does Wade _ever._

Wade’s given him head plenty of times in the past, but never has he thrown himself into it with such reckless abandon. 

Maximum effort, as it were. 

When Weasel comes _(finally)_ it leaves him seeing stars, a tingle of pleasure shooting down to his toes and fingertips. When he opens his eyes (and when did they even close?) it’s to the sight of Wade pulling off his spent cock with an obscene _pop,_ a trail of saliva and spunk between the head and his lips. Weasel wipes it off it with his thumb, drags his hand slowly down to press against Wade’s neck (just for a moment, just to feel his pulse race and his breath catch, just to test how very easy it would be to put a stop to either because _Wade would let him_ ) before Vanessa claims his attention again with an especially hard snap of her hips. 

Weasel sits back on his haunches to get a good look at Wade’s face as Vanessa starts to toy with his dick again, reaching down with both hands so that she can fondle his balls and polish his glans in tandem with the motion of her hips. He looks overwhelmed, with tears gathering at the corners of his eyes and that wildness in them building, building, building. He’s still trying _so hard_ to be good, to do exactly as Vanessa says, to take and bear it and please her, please them both. 

Now that there’s nothing in Wade’s mouth to muffle his babbling, he’s letting loose a constant stream of profanities and soft gasps and lengthy moans and sweet, desperate begging. Weasel runs a soothing hand over Wade’s shoulders to grasp the nape of his neck, and whispers soft words of praise in his ears, just the way he likes best _(needs)._

(Wade and Vanessa are just as captivating together as apart.)

An indeterminate amount of time passes as Weasel and Vanessa lose themselves to Wade’s desperate struggle. When Vanessa’s had her _fun,_ she says “Okay, babe, _come for me, now,”_ and Wade does, with a _howl._ She says it the same way she would order a drink, with that same nonchalance Wade shows when threatening someone with death-by-katanas. Weasel would be lying if he said it wasn't just as terrifying _(and hot)._

She milks him through his orgasm, thick pulses of come staining their sheets in ribbons, utterly impervious to Wade’s desperate pleading and the way he quakes under her overwhelming touch. If Wade is a force of nature, then she’s cut from marble, steady and unyielding. When he has nothing left to give, when his arms are shaking from the strain and his voice is hoarse, she finally releases him and pulls out, letting Wade slump to the bed in a boneless heap. 

Vanessa unbuckles the harness and efficiently tucks it away in a towel to be cleaned. Dropping to her knees beside them, she pets Wade’s sweaty hair out of his eyes. She quirks an eyebrow at him and that’s all it takes—he’s on her in an instant, head buried between her thighs. She laughs as she lands on her back, and it turns to a breathy moan as Wade goes to town, all broad strokes of his tongue and little flashes of teeth as he nips and sucks bruising kisses against the skin of her inner thighs, just the way she likes it. 

Weasel watches, and when he gets tired of watching he gets up to find a washcloth. When he returns, as clean as he can get without a shower and damp cloth in hand, Vanessa is coming to another shuddering climax, thighs clamped tightly around Wade’s head as he continues to wring pleasure from her body. 

They’re beautiful, together and apart. If Weasel were going to fall in love with anyone, it would definitely be these two, he thinks. As it is, he’d burn the entire world down just to keep them happy, and he knows they’d do the same for him. 

(Okay, so mostly Wade would do the burning—because he’s got enough crazy for all three of them and a small bus full of child soldiers to boot, and because Weasel doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, and because Vanessa’s too awesome to need to—but the sentiment is there. They know. That’s all that matters.)

Weasel cleans them both up (touching Vanessa as delicately as he can, and Wade a tiny bit harder, just to make him squirm,) and then he and Vanessa stroke and pet Wade until he melts, happy and content between them.

Later, when they’ve settled back down and negotiated a comfortable enough position for all of them, Wade says “I love you both.” His voice is raw and croaky and soft. “I love you too, babe,” Vanessa answers, with a soft smile and an even softer press of lips to his temple. She gets up to turn the lights off, and Weasel hums and pets Wade some more, stroking his hair in a slow rhythm until she returns.

(It’s not the first time Wade says the L-word, and it won’t be the last.)

He feels, rather than sees, Wade kiss his shoulder, the prickle of his stubble lingering long after he’s snuggled down and curled into Weasel’s side. Weasel’s arm is pinned under Wade and trapped between his body and Vanessa’s from the way she’s wrapped around Wade’s back. He doesn’t have much of a choice about resting his hand against Wade’s hip, or about interlocking his fingers with Vanessa’s when her hand reaches out in the dark and finds his. 

(It’s definitely nice.)

They fall asleep tangled together, in a bed that’s not really meant for three.

\\\//

They're happy. Disgustingly so, through holidays and bloody escapades and crime.

And then the cancer happens. 

It spreads through Wade’s entire body like wildfire—unstoppable, destructive, ravaging. 

Terminal. 

Vanessa tries to be an immovable object in its path, strong-arming Wade into fighting it when, for the first time in his life, it seems like he’s ready to give up. She plies him with wheatgrass and green smoothies as she searches, searches, searches for a cure, for an experimental trial, for hope. 

Weasel isn’t great at hope, but he tries, too. Grows his own little stash of wheatgrass, tries to make Wade laugh—not nearly as easy as it used to be, not nearly as real either, just a broken little sound in the back of his throat that makes Weasel want to stab something—and does his best to make things as easy for him as possible. 

_Terminal._

He still can’t imagine a world without Wade Wilson in it. 

He bets on Wade in the dead pool—because he wants to win something, and because Wade Wilson is a tenacious and ornery bastard who only ever does the exact the opposite of what people expect of him, even (or maybe especially) when he actually cares about the people doing the expecting—and it doesn’t feel real.

And then Wade _leaves._ Off on his plot-furthering adventure to find a cure all on his own. Or just to die _alone,_ like a geriatric cat that wants to live out its final agonizing moments in some bushes by the highway.

Wade leaves, and Vanessa spends entire days crying in the bar, haunting it like a ghost, and then, because she’s a strong, independent lady who don’t need no man, she moves on and fucks off. 

They keep in touch, but nothing’s the same without Wade. 

(What are they to each other, except two people who love _(d)_ Wade Wilson? In very different ways, sure. But if putting up with Wade’s bullshit isn’t _(wasn’t)_ a form of love just as important as the mushy-lovey-dovey stuff Vanessa feels _(felt),_ then Weasel doesn’t know what is.)

Months go by and it gets a little easier to breathe, but Weasel never stops looking over his shoulder, never stops expecting to see the shadow of a man still wearing that same awful plaid jacket with the rust-speckled fur collar, never stops missing his presence. 

And then Wade comes back, and he’s broken, a caricature of the man he used to be.

And he’s _cured._

What an _asshole._

(After their little tête à tête and after Weasel gets over Wade’s return from the dead and his new status as an undying monstrosity, Weasel will look at the dead pool and smile, because Wade’s a predictably contrary bastard like that, and even if Weasel didn’t win the bet, it sure feels like he’s won something else, something much more important.)

\\\//

Wade is different after Weapon-X in more ways than the obvious—just because Weasel’s not enough of an asshole to abandon him doesn’t change the fact that Wade’s face is _not_ fun to look at. He looks like an anthropomorphic uvula. 

And the rest of him isn’t any prettier, like soggy pizza that’s been left to fossilize in its greasy box so long that the pepperoni has shrivelled up and grown a slime-mold pet because it can’t stand the thought of enduring the slow descent into an eternity of decay alone.

His eyes are the same—mostly. A bit more haunted, and with something splintering and broken in their depths, but with that spark of madness that makes Wade, _Wade._

(Wade is still the same in the ways that matter most.) 

Wade’s always been tactile—with everyone, but especially with Weasel (and, later Vanessa)—and now it’s like that’s been dialed up to eleven. He’s clingy, touch-starved and needy, and it’s not quite new, it’s just different. More.

Wade’s always been a bit unhinged, a bit _mad_ (who isn’t?) _,_ but Deadpool doesn’t care about hiding their crazy. They let it loose for everyone to see and paint the town red with the blood of anyone who makes the fatal mistake of looking at them funny. 

They’re terrifying, and as mesmerizing to watch as the proverbial train wreck. 

“I like the thought of having you hurt for me,” Deadpool says casually, mask on and eyes covered, the glint of light off the knife in their hand reminiscent of the madness in Wade’s eyes. Weasel looks away first, head tilted so that his hair falls like a curtain between them—he’s never hidden how much he hates pain from Wade, and so Deadpool knows it well.

They just don't care. 

Deadpool is terrifying in ways Wade could never hope to be, with none of his softspots. Or at least, there’s fewer of them, and Weasel hasn’t quite managed to figure them out, yet. 

He shudders helplessly as Deadool drags the cold steel across his skin, not cutting, not yet, but the promise of pain is there. Weasel’s dick is plenty interested, and it’s not quite a fear boner, but clearly his judgement is impaired when it comes to Deadpool. Because even Weasel isn't immune to softspots, and Deadpool is always Wade, even when they’re not. 

Weasel closes his eyes at the first bite of steel against the sensitive skin of his neck. He’s hyper aware of every point of contact, of how easy it would be for Deadpool to lean into it, to apply the littlest bit of pressure and slice clean though skin and fat and muscle until there’s nothing left but red. 

Deadpool’s other hand—impersonal, covered with a glove that smells faintly of blood and gunpowder—is tangled in Weasel’s hair, pulling at the strands sharply enough to sting. Deadpool forces him to meet the eerie white eyes of their mask and Weasel can’t do anything to resist, can only let himself go limp and pliant and oh-so-aware of the knife at his throat, wielded by a calamity in human form who may or may not love Weasel enough to want to cut him to ribbons. 

The blade is plenty enough reminder to stay still, so Weasel doesn't try to move when Deadpool loosens their grip on his hair and trails a possessive hand down Weasel’s face, blunt leather-covered fingers digging into the skin just enough to be felt. A thumb nudges at his lips, dipping in just for an instant but leaving the foul tang of old blood heavy and impossible to avoid on his tongue, and Weasel _wishes_ he didn’t know way more than he’d like about where that thing had been. Then Deadpool is moving on, deliberately stroking down Weasel’s body before cupping his dick through the fabric of his pants, squeezing with a firm hand. 

“Take your pants off,” Deadpool growls, and Weasel obeys, hands shaking so hard that it takes him two tries to get the button undone and his fly open. The knife is still at his throat and it makes it difficult to shimmy out of his jeans, but he manages. 

Weasel doesn’t notice when Deadpool grabs the lube but they waste no time before drizzling a generous amount onto his cock, stroking him furiously until he comes, the bitter tang of fear and the pleasure filling his mind with white noise. 

When Weasel comes back to himself the knife is gone with, nothing worse than a thin red line to remember it by. The mask is off, and Wade is the one standing in front of him, holding him up. 

“You okay, Wees?” Wade asks, a waver in his voice. His hands—gloveless—feel foreign against Weasel’s skin, pockmarks and calluses making them rough and textured. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Weasel, and it’s mostly not a lie. Deadpool is terrifying, but turns out that Wade’s softspots still extend to him (at least for now). So that’s alright, then. 

Wade strips out of the rest of his suit and bullies Weasel into bed with him. They don’t fuck again that night, just lie together in the dark, bodies slotted together so closely that Weasel can’t tell where he ends and Wade begins, breathing slow and even and matched. Wade’s arm is heavy around Weasel’s waist, and his feet are cold where they’re tucked against Weasel’s ankles.

( Afterwards, Weasel will ask in return, “You okay buddy?” and Wade will say, “Yeah, I’m fine,” and they’ll both know that it’s a lie. 

Wade’s never really been okay, not as a sad kid-then-teen watching his daddy beat his mommy bloody, not as a trigger-happy ranger blowing his way through the ranks by killing, killing, killing _(until they told him to kill the wrong people),_ and not as a dangerously charming mercenary with a grin too wide for his pretty face and madness in his eyes. 

Wade _definitely_ isn't okay now, effectively immortal and with a whole lot more baggage—Wade is not remotely in the same _playing field_ as okay. 

But really, neither is Weasel. They’re both broken, emptied out husks playing at being human. )

\\\//

Wade is unraveling at the seams, torn between the violent rage in his bones and his self appointed mission to take down Weapon-X and everything remotely associated with them, and there’s not much Weasel can do about it. Vanessa probably could, with her magic lady fingers and her matching baggage (what’s left of it, anyway), but Wade won’t subject her to his fugly-mug. Lucky her. 

So Weasel puts up with Wade being a clingy mess and doesn’t push him away when quickies or sloppy blowjobs in the storage room become less about the orgasms and more about the cuddling. And he doesn’t bail when Deapool waves a katana around and refuses to put it away until Weasel promises them a blowjob (the drink _and_ the act), even if that’s probably something of a red flag. Yikes. 

( Eventually, Wade will come clean to Vanessa about Weapon-X, about Deadpool, about all of it. 

She’s rightfully pissed—way more than Weasel was when Wade turned up on his doorstep like a bad penny, looking every inch the monster straight from anyone’s worst nightmares—and she doesn’t hide it from him. Doesn’t limit her displeasure just to Wade, either, what with how Weasel was complicit in keeping her in the dark. Wade was dead to her for _five years,_ with Weasel in the know almost the entire time. Yeah, her anger is undeniably justified. 

She’s pissed, but she takes Wade back anyways, because she loves him, and because he’s hers, in every way that matters most. And after a few drinks, and a bit of yelling, and a whole lot of groveling, and a few rounds of cunnilingus that Weasel doesn’t exactly love but doesn't hate either, she forgives Weasel, too. 

Vanessa and Wade are both animals, so they go reaffirm their bond or whatever with a whole lot of primal sex. When they surface, they’ll both still reek of it—so much better than the smell of decay that follows Wade around like a fart in a nunnery—and they’ll be happy, and that’s all that matters. 

And then they’ll drag Weasel in for their next round of fucking—”just call it lovemaking, Wees,” “ _never_ ”—and he’ll never admit it, but he’ll be pretty damn pleased with the current state of affairs, too. 

Vanessa is beautiful, and vicious in all the best ways, and she’s so very good at holding Wade’s leash, which translates to holding _Deadpool’s_ leash, and for that Weasel could just about kiss her—not that either of them would ever pretend (or want) to control Wade in the ways that matter. 

And none of them are okay, but that’s really nothing new. ) 

\\\//

And then Wade’s so-called commercial-like break of happiness ends. 

Because Vanessa dies. 

The _permanent_ kind.

The kind without a convenient, timey-wimey deus ex machina fix-it.

Wade spends three straight days moping in the bar, stinking up the place with his misery, before Weasel gets fed up and drags him upstairs to his apartment. Wade is sad and pathetic and refuses to let go when Weasel tries to toss him in the shower to wash away the stale smell of piss and alcohol and death, so Weasel gets in with him and it’s not okay, but it’s nothing new. Between the steam and the falling water it’s like being in a private bubble, a muffled place where, for a short time, nothing else matters.

The shower isn’t really designed to fit two grown men, especially not when one of them (looking at you, Wade Wilson) has more muscles than common sense, but they manage. It’s easier to run the soap over the broad expanse of Wade’s chest than to try and contort enough to clean himself, so that’s exactly what Weasel does. He runs the soap gently over Wade’s bald head, over his shoulder and down his arms, across the hard ridges of his abs, and giving his cock the same treatment. 

There’s no reason to be ashamed; they’ve seen each other at their lowest plenty of times before. Gradually the hollow look in Wade’s eyes abates, even if it doesn’t fade. It’ll be there as long as Wade is alive, Weasel thinks, as long as Wade is alive and missing Vanessa—which will probably be forever. 

Weasel squirms until his back is pressed against Wade’s front, and he doesn't need to prompt Wade to grab the shampoo and lather up his hair. The smell of lavender fills the air, masking the smell of agony that still lingers on Wade’s skin, and if Weasel’s eyes are stinging it’s definitely because a bit of the shampoo gets into them, and not because the smell reminds him of Vanessa. Wade runs gentle fingers through the wet strands, tugging until Weasel tilts his head back to rinse the suds. 

The sensation of Wade’s lips against the underside of Weasel’s jaw doesn’t come as a surprise. His voice is barely a whisper as he mouths “I miss her, Wees, I miss her so much” against Weasel’s skin like a litany. It isn’t a surprise, either, to feel those large hands trail down Weasel’s body to rest heavily against his hips, like a vice. Just like the words squeeze like a vice around his heart. 

“I know buddy. I miss her too,” Weasel says, and his voice doesn’t crack but it’s a near thing. It’s the truth, raw and painful, like picking at a scab over and over again just to see it bleed. 

Weasel tilts his head back to rest against Wade’s shoulder and closes his eyes against the spray. The sensation of Wade’s mottled skin against his isn’t unpleasant. The shifting texture has become as familiar now as Wade’s smooth skin was then. 

He thinks of Vanessa as Wade cleans him in perfunctory strokes, and wonders if Wade is picturing his almost-wife right now too. If he's remembering doing this for her, if he’s thinking of the smell of her hair and her skin, or of the sound of her laughter when Wade had tried to explain what he and Weasel were _(are)_ to each other.

(It hadn’t been mocking, not exactly, but Weasel would have almost preferred _that_ to the reality. The ease with which she _got it_ made Weasel feel uncomfortable, exposed.)

And then Weasel isn’t really thinking of anything except for Wade, because Wade’s hand is hot and tight around his cock, moving with practiced ease. If it were anyone else Weasel would be embarrassed at how quickly he goes from uninterested to ready to go, but Wade’s _never_ been anyone else and that’s the whole point. 

Wade still knows just how to tease and tug at his foreskin, knows how to thumb at the head of his cock when he starts to get close in a way that’s just shy of too much. It’s lazy, easy, just like it’s easy for Wade to slip his cock between Weasel’s thighs and thrust with lazy, shallow jolts in time with the motion of his hand. He doesn’t need anything else from Weasel, doesn’t need anything more than this easy give-and-take. Weasel just needs to exist under his hands, around his body, and that maybe seems unfair but Wade’s always had this need to be helpful, and even more so when he’s hurting.

(This isn’t nearly as Weasel-centric as it seems.)

Wade comes first with a low grunt, muffling the sound against the skin of Weasel’s neck, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down to the junction of his neck and shoulder. It doesn't take much more for Weasel to follow him over the edge, just a few more twitches of his hips as Wade slides his hand along the shaft and palms the head of Weasel’s cock with his other hand. 

They rinse off in silence, and then Weasel turns off the water (which blessedly stayed warm the whole time, as if it, too, knew how much Wade needed the comfort). There’s a wildness building in Wade’s eyes, something dark and hungry. It’s always been there, lurking behind his teeth and threatening to consume him. And now it’s rising to the surface like a tidal wave. 

Vanessa would have known what to say to tame it.

Weasel’s always been better at giving it a target. 

For tonight, Weasel’s presence will need to be enough. Tomorrow he’ll find Wade something to take his rage and anger and hurt out on, something especially bloody and violent and brutal. 

(And Weasel will be there to put Wade back together when Deadpool inevitably draggs themselves back. That wildness will be plain to see as their broken body bleeds all over Weasel’s floor, mad cackling ripping free of their throat in a way that’s equal parts terrifying and desolating.) 

Weasel shivers as the cool air hits his still damp skin, hurrying to pull on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. He leaves Wade sitting buck naked on his bed and heads straight to the fridge for a beer. Wade will come out when he’s good and ready. 

And if he’s still sitting there when Weasel decides to call it a night, then that’s fine. But he won’t be, because they both know that Wade shouldn't be alone with his thoughts tonight. 

Weasel plops himself down onto the couch, turns the TV on to Demetrio’s latest attempt at avenging his brother’s death by making Veronica’s life a living hell, and drinks his beer (he refuses to be ashamed of his obsession with Spanish telenovelas—they’re entertaining as hell and a good way to brush up on his Spanish). When even Demetrio’s dulcet tones aren’t enough to keep him distracted, he pulls out his laptop and starts looking for Wade’s next assignment _(distraction)._

Once he has some ideas percolating, he gets a few jollies mildly inconveniencing some rich and powerful assholes, and then he spends a few gleeful minutes poking his pet SHIELD agent with a sharp stick. (Skye seems to have gone disgustingly, inexplicably straight, but they’re still _vicious_ enough to make up for it—they’re an opponent that keeps his mind sharp.)

Eventually Wade emerges, dressed in Weasel’s softest pair of sweatpants and a thread-bare t-shirt with _‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take!’_ still faintly visible above a peeling, hot pink shot glass. He looks lost and pathetic and one dropped joke away from crying.

He stumbles over to the couch and slumps down like a puppet whose strings have been cut, and then he props his bare feet on Weasel’s lap because he’s a predictable asshole like that. 

“You still smell like death,” Weasel says, and it’s the truth—there’s a foul stench in the air, like shit that's been left to bake in the sun and rehydrated with piss, worse even than the usual putrid smell of rot and the coppery tang of blood that seems to cling persistently to Wade’s skin, even on the good days. But he curls his hand around Wade’s ankle anyways, absentmindedly running soothing circles into the pockmarked skin with his thumb. 

They stay there for a long time, letting the sounds of Demetrio coming to (yet another) shocking realization about the true cause of his brother Ricardo’s suicide wash over them. 

When Weasel feels his eyelids start to droop from exhaustion he doesn’t need to say anything to know that Wade is just as bone-wearily _done,_ ready to shut down for a few hours of (hopefully restful (but probably not)) sleep. His face looks gaunt and drawn in the low light, skin worse than ever, dark circles achingly obvious under his eyes. 

They slip into bed together, and Weasel doesn’t complain as Wade wraps around him like a stiflingly hot octopus and clings to him just as tightly. 

Weasel doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

\\\//

In the early days after Vanessa's death, Weasel gets used to finding an open window in his apartment. Wade will have dragged himself back from his latest murder spree only to expire (or pass out) somewhere in Weasel’s appartment. 

(He’s made it his mission to hunt down anyone even remotely involved with Vanessa’s death and make them _pay,_ but it’s glaringly obvious that the person he wants to punish the most is himself.) 

Usually it’s the couch, because Wade’s an asshole and doesn't care about getting blood and shit and other bodily fluids all over Weasel’s belongings. No amount of complaining will ever change that, so Weasel just picks up the pieces and tosses Wade in the shower to revive or sober up (or both). It’s jaring how similar those two are with him, with almost exactly the same aftercare script, but Weasel gets used to it and gets on with it.

(This still isn’t anything new.) 

Sometimes, taking care of Wade goes something like this: 

Weasel will find Wade, broken and bleeding but healing (or smelling like a distillery and so drunk he can almost pass as a baseline human) and toss him in the shower. He’ll go in with him, if Wade really needs it, but often he doesn’t have the patience for it and leaves Wade to his own devices. Wade is a big boy—if he manages to drown himself in there it’s on him. 

When Wade makes it out, hale and healed and alive and painfully sober, his eyes red and puffy and brimming with tears, Weasel will bully him back into bed or onto the couch and wrap him in a blanket burrito. Who doesn’t like burritos, of all kinds? Definitely not Wade Wilson, whose brand of crazy often involves yelling “chimichangas” at the top of his lungs while divesting someone else of theirs. 

Anyways. 

Weasel will wrap Wade up tightly and climb in behind him and hold onto him for all that he’s worth, and let Wade cry it out for as long as they can both stand. 

When that’s done, Wade will inevitably make a crude joke, because he _(still)_ doesn’t know how to do anything else, and Weasel won’t laugh _(he won’t)_ because there’s something terribly sad about it, in context, and apparently that's one of his soft limits. Instead Weasel will say, “shut up and let me take care of you,” and Wade will say “oh, I’ve got something for you to take care of all right,” because he never did learn when to quit. 

Wade doesn’t need to say “ _thanks”_ for Weasel to hear it, and Weasel doesn’t need to be nice to him for Wade to know how much he cares. And if orgasms are part of their mourning, if Wade will (often) start crying while they fuck, if (sometimes) he starts babbling about (or to) Vanessa, well. Neither of them have ever claimed to have healthy coping strategies. 

(Their particular brand of fucked up isn’t anything _new.)_

Other times, taking care of Wade goes something like this: 

Weasel will be asleep when Wade drags himself back from his latest murder-spree. He always rolls in reeking of blood—his as much as not, these days—and strips out of his suit, washing up quickly because he _knows_ Weasel’s stance on grime in his bed (other than the fun kind, of course—some things are worth fighting for). When that’s done, Wade will slip under the covers and plaster himself to Weasel’s back like a living, breathing, electric blanket. For all that his mutation has him running hot (like a low grade fever), his feet will still be like two blocks of ice when he tucks them under Weasel’s legs. Weasel will grumble and Wade will laugh, but neither of them will move apart. 

“You awake yet?” Wade asks, chin hooked over Weasel’s shoulder as he sneaks his hands under Weasel’s shirt to rove possessive fingers over naked skin. 

“Almost,” Weasel says, voice still rough with sleep, teetering on the edge of wakefulness in that blissful place that doesn't feel real, where the world still has a dreamlike quality to it. 

“Good,” Wade murmurs, pressing open mouthed kisses into the side of Weasel’s neck until he’s shivering under the onslaught, heat pooling in his gut. Wade murmurs something else that doesn’t quite make it through the sleep fog still clouding Weasel’s head and slides his hands forward, moving across Weasel’s body with purpose. 

Weasel will make more of those grumbly sleep sounds that make Wade chuckle, before reluctantly disentangling one arm from where it’s clutching his pillow to grasp one of Wade’s roaming hands, threading their fingers together. Wade presses closer so that Weasel can feel the bulge of Wade’s sweatpants resting snugly against Weasel’s ass, and moves their linked hands to graze against Weasel’s cloth covered dick just to make Weasel feel how hard he already is. 

“Wade,” Weasel says, barely loud enough to be a distinct sound, as Wade pulls back to slide their still joined hands past the elastic band of Weasel’s underwear, rubbing his fingers over the leaking tip of Weasel’s dick, earning himself a shuddering jerk of Weasel’s hips. Weasel lazily urges him on as Wade curls his hand loosely around the head, as he trails down the shaft, until finally he takes hold of Weasel’s dick properly. Wade starts moving in earnest then, just the right amount of pressure and speed to make Weasel’s hips buck uncontrollably into their linked hands, pushing back to grind his ass against Wade’s hard-on. 

They’re both breathing hard, little pants and muffled _‘oh fuck’s_ as Weasel writhes back against Wade, his grip tightening around Wade’s hand because it’s almost too much. Weasel groans as he comes, _“Wade,”_ and feels the way Wade’s hips stutter and jerk against him as he chases his own pleasure. They still, for a moment, but Wade’s an asshole so he continues stroking him until Weasel makes the noise that means _too much,_ then he wipes his hand clean on Weasel’s bed sheets, because he’s a _lazy_ asshole. Weasel’s too blissed out to do more than grumble about it. 

He dozes off when Wade pulls away, presumably to deal with the mess he’s made in his pants, and doesn’t so much as open his eyes when Wade slips back into bed nude, pressing his face between Weasel’s shoulder blades to breathe him in. 

Eventually, Wade will whine and poke at him persistently, and with a heavy sigh and a cantankerous grumble that really means _“you’re lucky I like you so much,”_ Weasel will roll over to hold Wade tightly against his chest, like the smug two hundred pounds of man-child he is. 

Wade sighs, that little happy snuffle sound he makes that means he’s feeling especially pleased with himself, and Weasel doesn’t need to hide his smile against Wade’s shoulder because it’s not like anyone can see it, but he does anyway. And if that makes it so that Wade can feel it, so he knows that Weasel really means _“I care,”_ well.

(They’re not okay, but it’s _really_ nothing new.)

There’ll be bad days and worse days, and a few good days in between, and Wade will eventually complete his crusade to avenge Vanessa’s death (against everyone _except_ himself) and Weasel will put up with him at his worse because he doesn’t know how to do anything else (doesn’t want to do anything else) and because Wade at his best is more than worth it.

\\\//

There’s that whole embarrassing affair with X-force, and Weasel isn’t too thrilled about _that_ while it’s going down—talk about a whole ‘nother story—but things work themselves out eventually.

(And Wade draws them all together, forever pulling more people into his orbit (his F-word), and later into a messy pile of bodies and flailing limbs. 

They settle. Wade nudges up against him, a hand on Cable’s hip, with Domino and Dopinder using him as a pillow. They sleep. 

It’s almost nice.)

\\\//

When Wade meets Spider-Man—as Deadpool, no less—he won’t shut up about it. 

For _days_ it’s all he’ll talk about, constantly running his mouth about Spider-Man’s ass, Spider-Man’s voice, Spider-Man’s quips, _blah blah blah Spider-Man._ It’s enough to make Weasel think about shooting him, just to get him to shut up, just for a few minutes, _please._

But he doesn’t, because a) he doesn’t want to deal with Scary Wade more often than he absolutely has to, and b) he _just_ bought yet another new couch and he wants to keep it free of brain matter for another week or so, and c) he’s (mostly) not that much of an asshole.

Weasel knows most of it comes from insecurity. It’s something Wade has never been a stranger to, but especially after Weapon-X, and his persistent skin condition, and the things he sees that no one else could possibly hope to understand (not even Weasel.)

Wade’s found someone he likes, and he needs everyone to know—doesn’t just _want_ to be heard but _needs_ it more than air—and he _needs_ the object of his affection to never ever be able to forget him. 

Poor sod. 

There’s no getting rid of Deadpool-Wade once they’ve latched onto a target. And Spider-Man makes a valiant effort to do just that, in those early days of their _association._ But he’ll learn just how fruitless the attempts are in time, and he’ll accept Deadpool’s presence for what it is _(inevitable)._

Or, he’ll go insane. 

Weasel would know. 

(Sometimes he’s not sure which option he picked, all those years ago, isn’t convinced he didn’t stumble down a rabbit hole.)

Deadpool’s gotten pretty good about remembering that Weasel is just a baseline human and very, very breakable, but they don’t need to contain themselves when it comes to Spider-Man. Spider-Man, the fellow mutate. Spider-Man, so freakishly strong that he can pin Deadpool like an errant pup, with enough of a healing factor that he can take Deadpool’s overzealous (generally deadly) affections and get right back up again.

They’re made for each other, and it’s almost horrifying to watch. 

Spider-Man runs his mouth just as much as Deadpool-Wade does, sharp as a whip and fluent in Wade-speak—all quips and pop culture references and dad jokes. Too bad he’s got a massive butt-plug up his ass, brand name _Morality._ But instead of rubbing Wade the wrong way, it somehow makes him want to _be better._ Wild. 

Weasel watches them orbit each other, watches Wade come back slightly from the precipice of madness he’s been tethering on for as long as Weasel has known him, and wonders. 

And then Weasel meets Spider-Man properly, as a person and not just the byproduct of a presence in Wade’s life, and it turns out that _Spider-Man_ is _Peter Parker._ Little Peter Parker, who Weasel remembers from their college days as a mousy nerd (the steel in his eyes looking out of place behind thick rimmed glasses—hindsight is twenty-twenty, and also a _bitch),_ and who still remembers Weasel as _Jack._

So that’s a bit awkward. 

Especially when Peter glances between Wade and Weasel like he just doesn’t get it, like there's a piece of the puzzle missing and with that same dumb little scrunch between his eyebrows that Weasel remembers hating whenever they had to work on projects together. 

Some things never change, and what Weasel and Wade share is one of them. 

( And if it does change, then it’s only to accommodate the ways in which they’ve both changed over the years, but the result is still the same—they still fit. 

If Vanessa and cancer and Weapon-X and X-Force and every moment in between hadn’t managed to change what they share, then awkward, _heroic_ Peter Parker sure as hell won’t, either.)

They’re not exclusive (obviously), never have been, because Wade loves too much and too deeply to restrict it to any single person, and because the idea of all that love and focus aimed directly at Weasel makes his skin crawl. 

So Weasel watches Wade and Peter orbit each other, spinning, spinning, spinning, and doesn't curb his tongue around Peter (because he doesn’t need to) and eventually he stops complaining about a superhero in his bar and starts taking care of his scraps and boo-boos instead, because Wade is completely _(completely)_ useless with first aid (always has been, but especially so now that he doesn’t need it for himself.)

They’ll figure it out eventually. 

Weasel will stick around, still part of Wade’s orbit—at least for a little while longer, as long as he can, because Wade will outlast them all and when it _does_ end it’ll be just as beautiful and devastating as a star going supernova. And Peter will do the same. It’s worse for him—at least Weasel doesn’t recklessly endanger his life with senseless heroics.

(They all know how this ends. They know what happens when Wade loses the people he cares about, whether it’s to himself, to time, or to the inevitable.)

Weasel still doesn’t have a great track record with people, and Wade is still an asshole, and still doesn’t care about Weasel’s hangups. He’s wedged himself so deeply into the very fibre of Weasel’s being that he’s physically incapable of resisting any part of Wade Wilson. And Peter makes Wade want to be better, and Weasel thinks he should resent him for it—but he can’t, because Peter is just as broken as they are, just in different ways. 

None of them are okay, stuck in a self-destructive cycle, spinning, spinning, spinning.

(It’s not a bad thing.)

And at the end of the day, it’s really nothing new. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, then thank you muchly for coming on this journey with me! Do drop me a line if you enjoyed it.
> 
> Weasel, Wade and Peter will return soon for some primal spooder ceiling sex... and other shenanigans!


End file.
